


The Ruse of Beyond

by Rahn (Rahndom)



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman Beyond, DCU - Comicverse
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-07-01
Packaged: 2017-12-06 08:20:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/733534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahndom/pseuds/Rahn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Batman Beyond’s Tim Drake is nothing but a ruse to protect a broken young man, trapped in time and unable to remember his broken heart. All to protect the one who gave it all and now holds everyone’s hopes for the future in his smile.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mr. Drake

**Terry is typing away on the compu** ter, frowning as he tries to finish his schoolwork before dawn and occasionally pausing to pat Ace on the head when the dog demands his attention. With a tired huff, the teen turns to the dog, eyeing his massive jaw and sharp teeth.

“You wouldn’t mind eating my homework, would you?” he asks absent-mindedly.

Ace stares back at him for a moment, ears perked, before he tilts his head in confusion.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” Terry smiles, patting the animal’s head.

“Ace has better taste than that,” a voice calls from behind Terry, forcing him to smile.

“Mr. Drake!” he greets, standing from his seat and offering a chair to the old man. “It’s almost been a month since you visited! The old man is going to be so happy!”

“I bet,” Drake said with a mournful shake of his head. Suddenly his eyes caught sight of the computer screen, an eyebrow rising in disbelief. “Homework? Need any help?”

Terry plopped on his own seat, nodding tiredly.

“Nah,” he said, running his fingers through the keys. “It’s not that hard, really, but it’s tedious to type. Bruce won’t let me use the voice-to-text software through, he says I have to do it myself.”

Tim simply laughed, patting the young man in the back.

“We all had to struggle through that,” he comments sympathetically. “The old man likes his ways best.”

“It wouldn’t be so terrible if he wasn’t right most of the time, though,” Terry mutters, earning another joyous laugh from Mr. Drake. Terry feels a surge of pride inside his chest at such laugh. He likes Mr. Drake, feels comfortable around him. Enjoys the way his calloused fingers seem to cover his hand and swallow it in its vastness. He feels protected by that hand, safe.

He wants Mr. Drake so smile like that all the time.

“That’s B for you, Terry.”

“Stop bothering the kid, Tim,” Bruce calls from the doorway, leaning into his cane as he approaches them and swats Tim’s silver head softly. “He needs to study.”

“Aww, B!”Mr. Drake complains with another cheerful laugh.

“I’m serious,” Bruce warns, limping into his customary seat by the computer. “How’s work going?”

“Fine,” Terry nods, running a hand through his dark hair. “Ten more pages to go and I’ll be done.”

“Good,” Bruce nods, expressionless as usual. Terry wanted to laugh. Leave it to big boss to make sure he had his homework done before he could leave the Batcave.

“You worry too much, Boss,” Terry says resting a mocking hand on Bruce’s own before frowning. “Your hands are really cold, should I go and get you something?”

Bruce instantly takes his hand away, his eyes straying to the screen.

“No,” he growls, hands coming to rest at his lap.

“Tea would be wonderful,” Mr. Drake interrupts, grinning. “The cave is colder than I remember it.”

Bruce turns to glare at Mr. Drake, lips pursed with the urge to strangle him, no doubt, but Terry is on his feet instantly, beaming his most obnoxious smile at the two and rushing towards the Manor proper, promising to return in a few minutes with tea and cookies for the grandpas.

Bruce and Tim stay silent until they are sure the young man is far away from them, until they know it’s impossible to be overheard, before Bruce turns the computer’s security down and closes his eyes tiredly.

“He looks happy,” Tim comments with a small, sorrowful smile. “Happier than ever.”

Bruce nods, watching on the monitors as Terry reads the labels on the kitchen and measures the tea leaves with single-minded precision.

“It hasn’t been easy,” he comments, his wrinkled fingers caressing the image.

Tim nods.

“Babs tells me you’ve been doing a great job this time around,” he says, shaking his head.

“The Mcginnis did most of the job for me,” Bruce shrugs. “He’s well adapted, his mother adores him and he has a little brother who is not actively trying to kill him. I would say it’s an improvement.”

The other man laughs for a moment, eyes also following Terry’s progress on the kitchen.

“Waller asked me to tell you everything is ready,” he comments, taking a data-chip from his pocket and handing it to the old man. “He’s your clone.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow.

“My clone?” he asks. “Really?”

“She seems to think it will distract the League of Shadows from prodding further,” the other man says confidently. “You know, a secret over a secret over a secret.”

Bruce frowns.

“He won’t be happy,” he mutters, hands clenching over his cane.  

“He’ll be safe,” Tim says, resting his hand on top of Bruce’s. “And if he ever realizes he’s not aging properly, the clone-thing can just cover most angles. You know, like it happened to Kon.”

“He’ll never forgive us,” Bruce sighs. “If he ever finds out the truth…”

“You’d rather see him rocking back and forth again? Holding Jaybird’s helmet like a precious memento?” the other man growls, his hand tightening. “I know you feel he’s capable of anything, B, but even you have to admit Timmy needs this. He needs this normalcy.”

“And so do you, Dick,” Bruce says, eyes locking with his oldest son. “You are placing yourself in harm’s way. When he comes, and I know he will, you’ll be the first he attacks.”

Dick shrugs.

“I’m too old for this, anyways,” he jokes. “And if Dami gets me I don’t have to play the part of your heir and take over the company anymore, do I?”

“Dick,” Bruce frowns.

“Ah, ah ah, B, Tim, remember?” Dick scolds mournfully. “I’m Tim, he’s Terry and Dami is dead. This is our reality now, and we’ll stick to it.”

Bruce sighs once more, running his fingers over his aching forehead.

“Send this report to Daniel as well, then,” he whispers. “I’m sure he will need to prepare accordingly as well.”

“Okay dokay, smokay” Dick grins, wrapping an arm around Bruce’s slumped shoulders and sharing the tiredness of their little personal mission, the weight of it.

“Is this what they used to call a Kodak moment?” Terry jokes as he re-enters the cave, holding a small tray with three steaming cups of tea. “I hope you don’t mind earl grey, Mr. Drake.”

“Not at all, T,” Dick laughs fondly, reaching for a cup and handing Bruce another. “It was Alfred’s favorite and B’s by default, you know?”

“Really?” Terry asks as he takes his own cup and carefully adding a lump of sugar and exactly three drops of lemon juice. Unaware of the two pairs of blue eyes following his every move with sorrowful fondness.  Terry’s own pale, blue eyes seem to catch a hint of red reflected in his tea that makes him look up and into ‘The Gallery’, where all the suits from Bruce’s old companions lay.

Dick follows his line of sight, sure that Terry is, once again, looking at his Red Robin suit. He frowns, however, when he realizes those pale eyes are focused on Jason’s case.

“Hey, T,” he says softly, his hand resting on top of the teen’s shoulder. “Did I ever tell you the story of the Teen Titans?”

Terry’s eyes – Tim’s intelligent, analytical, brilliant eyes – turn to him in askance, a small smile curling his lips as Bruce huffs in annoyance.

“I’d love to hear all about it,” he says, tilting his head to the side.

“You are not patrolling until you finish your homework, Terry,” Bruce says, rolling his eyes. Dick and Terry laugh.

“Caught,” the teen says, drinking his tea and turning back to the computer. “Will you give me a hand, Mr. Drake?”

Dick smiles lovingly, his hand clenching over his mug.

“Always, Baby Bird,” he says softly, moving his chair closer to the monitor.

Bruce watches them interact, feeling he has been transported to the distant past once more, to a time where Tim and Dick would chatter over the computer, when Dick would pretend to understand whatever Tim was saying just so he would not lose his role as the ‘wise older brother’ as he called it, and Tim would pretend he didn’t notice his older brother had no idea of genetic splicing and its consequences into future generations and medicine. Jason would huff and comment that Dick was been an asshole and come on! It was really a piece of cake to get! And Damian would simply tut at the three of them and mutter how Drake was showing off again and wouldn’t he stop before he made them all dizzy? Alfred would stand to a side, his eyes full of fondness as he and Bruce himself watched the ‘children’ be just that…. Children.

He sometimes wonders what went wrong with that beautiful family that had created itself around him and how could he have been so blind to the needs of his children then? Because Jason was dead – and this time he wasn’t coming back – and Dick was playing a part – a life – he shouldn’t have to and Damian – his son, his little son – had gone and broken the one law, crossed the one line they all knew no one should ever cross.

And Tim?

Their little Tim, their miracle worker had been sacrificed to madness, gone from their grasp. Trapped in a body that couldn’t age, in a mind that couldn’t stand reality anymore, hidden from the world that had taken so much, too much.

And once again, Bruce curses The Joker and his mind games, curses the life and the mission, and vows he will never let anything hurt his family ever again.

Even if he has to play the part of the oblivious old man, even if Dick has to live under another name, under another story. Even if Amanda Waller and the rest of Cadmus have to craft lie after lie after lie and Daniel will never live how he should have lived, will never call him ‘Father’ and ‘Mentor’.

If only so their Tim will keep that careless smile on his face for another day, another week.

If only so the last bastion of hope in his miserable life can be spared anymore pain.

With a sigh that hides his tiredness, Bruce pushes his chair towards the computer and reprimands ‘Tim’ and ‘Terry’, pointing out the mistakes the two are doing and how it will affect ‘Terry’s’ grades if left uncorrected. Selfishly enjoying ‘Terry’s’ laughter.

Because it’s the only sound that brings him peace.


	2. Superboy

He is sitting on top of a building, drinking a beer and pretending to mind his own business when the sound of propellers and the soft padding of feet mutes the chaotic mess that is night-time Gotham and he really, really wants to remain his usual, suave self but he can feel his heart stop for a moment inside his chest and really, he should know better but Mrs. Weller had to contact him and Nightwing has been talking with Clark and pretending they didn’t know he was eavesdropping and…

“You do know metas are not allowed in Gotham, right?” that painfully familiar voice says behind him, and he has to close his eyes tightly for a moment, two, before he turns towards the new comer with his customary bright grin.

“Can’t we try and keep this from Batman then?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“That would be kind of hard,” the other man says, pointing to the red bat in his chest. “Considering I’m Batman and all.”

“Right,” he laughs, taking another swing of his beer. “My bad.”

The black-clad teen looks at him for a second before he drops to sit by his side, legs dangling over the edge of the roof distractedly.

“I’ll just play dumb if the boss asks,” he sighs. “If  you promise to behave.”

“Cross my alien heart and hope to die?” he tries, shrugging. “I’m just… celebrating?”

“By drinking a beer that should have no effect on you in one of Gotham’s most ridiculously ornate buildings?”

“It’s my best friend’s birthday,” he replies, eyes losing themselves in the sky.

Batman blinks.

“Shouldn’t you be with your friend, then?”  he asks.

‘I am,’ he wants to snap, to wrap his arms around the slender teen and weep for a moment, tell him that Cassie never stopped waiting for him, that Greta and Cissy and Steph named their firstborns after him, hoping he would go and become their godfather, that Bart still thinks he was lost in time like his mentor.  

That he can still be recovered and saved.

That he has missed him so fucking much.

“Can’t,” he says instead. “He’s not around anymore.”

“Sorry,” Batman apologizes, removing his mask and staring at him with those terrifyingly smart blue eyes or his, the eyes of a genius, the eyes of the past.

The eyes he still dreams about.

“That’s okay,” he shrugs. “He wouldn’t have liked me drinking a beer in his name anyways. He hated beer, you know? Spit his first beer all over his father, he did. We never stopped teasing him about it.”

Batman’s smile is small, barely there, painful.

“That must have sucked.”

“It did.”

“Can I ask,” Batman hesitates for a moment. “What happened to your friend?”

A bitter snarl curls his mouth.

“A monster broke him,” he replies, hand tight around the neck of his beer bottle. “Then another tried to fix him and instead made it worse.”

“Do you miss him?” the teen asks, tilting his head in that terribly familiar way.

He laughs humorlessly.

“Every single day.”

Batman’s gauntled hand rests on his shoulder and he wants to snatch the limb and keep it in his grasp forever, to never let go of that small hand – so small, how come he never realized how small that hand was until it was too late? – to make sure the pulse beating under that pale skin never stops.

They spend the following hour talking.

Well, he talks, Batman listens.

He tells the teen everything that comes into mind, of the time he got into Gotham and decided to play Batman with his Rob, of how annoyed the other boy was and how he still had that fond light in his pale eyes, of how his Rob pestered Batman for over a month so he would tell him how Superman shaved every  morning, if only to try and teach him and thus making get rid of his ridiculous attempt of a beard. The time his Rob and Bart went to visit him in Smallville, both in drag and how he had hit on Rob before the two had burst out into laughter and snapped pictures of his embarrassed face.

How his friend had tried to clone him when he thought him dead, because he loved him so much he couldn’t deal with the fact that he was gone.

He is about to tell the teen about the time they kissed on a dare and how he wanted to do it again ever since when there is a beep on his comm unit and a glaring green icon in the form of an ancient mask seems to float around his screen.

He sighs.

“It seems duty calls,” he mutters, standing.

“It would appear so,” Batman agrees, standing as well and offering his hand to him.

“See you around soon,” he says finally, shaking his head. “Superboy, right?”

He nods, his smile turning bitter as he shakes that hand and tries to memorize the feeling of its faint warmth.

“Call me Kon.”


	3. Weeping Madonna

Daniel remembers very little of the life he was supposed to have, except for the few years that would shape him. The childish obsession that led him to his current situation and, of course, the insecure stability he lived in constantly.

He had always known he was a clone, and it had never bothered him. His mother never made it an issue and his grandfather expressed himself about Daniel’s origins with a certain sort of pride that made the boy’s face lit up.

But as any boy of four, he had wanted to know about his origins, the people who had contributed to his creation. And while information about his amazing father was always available – his mother would smile that secretive smile of hers, as if he didn’t know she was weaving lie upon lie over her tales, and his grandfather would simply sigh prompt him to a seat – Daniel didn’t really need to know about the great Bruce Wayne.

The man wasn’t his father any more than the petri dish they used to cultivate him was.

He wanted to know about his original, the one he had been cloned from.

Why had there been a need to clone him in the first place?

Was Damian Wayne his brother, or was he his father?

Information about the elusive Damian Wayne, the one that got away, was hard to come by- his grandfather would simply ignore the questions and his mother would scowl and declare he needed more training -  but Daniel was resourceful, intelligent and as stubborn as any other member of his family, and he would swallow up any piece of information he came by like a sponge, recruiting the help of some of the League’s members in order to further his reach over their networks.

He wasn’t sure at first what Miss Pru had meant when she whispered how alike he was to his older brother, stroked his hair and promised to help him as much as she could and started collecting data that should have – could have, would have – been deleted years ago. She brought records and videos and even the occasional picture or two, whenever she was sent to the Americas, she would steal glances of his brother and bring family pictures, she would scourge the trashcans of Wayne Manor and collect anything and everything that she deemed important for him to solve the puzzle that was his original.

His older brother.

His original.

Most were childish drawings that were thrown out at some point, creatures of nightmares Damian considered worthy of his attention, apocalyptic depictions of improvable futures – if his grandfather’s tales of their father’s morals were to be believed –, pieces of clothing that would no longer fit a boy that was growing at the rate Damian was growing, cut-out pictures from various medias, newspaper pages describing the comings and goings of the infamous Wayne family.

Daniel read them all hungrily, carefully saving most into his files.

Jigsaw pieces that slowly formed the framework of Damian.

A lonely boy plagued by what should not be.

A child trying to mold himself to become someone accepted by the imposing father figure that was Bruce.

 Damian, from what Daniel could tell, first tried to impose his superiority within the household, but then had easily turned towards hiding all which he considered disgraceful and only displaying the characteristics that would make him acceptable in his father’s eye.

He felt sorry for Damian then, unable to feel the safety and love of the Al Ghul, unable to seek solace into his father’s embrace as Daniel sought in his mother’s, unable to smile freely when he felt happiness in the same way Daniel did when he felt pleased.

Until the day of ‘The Earthquake’, as he liked to call it.

The day his mother dragged him into the underground and locked all doors.

The day grandfather prepared for the inevitable, as he called it, and started spreading all League members into safe-houses and just sat in his control room to stare at the screens, hands entwining, chin resting on his fingers, eyes growing more and more concerned with each passing second.

He had climbed to sit on his grandfather’s lap, his small hands tugging at his shirt and feeling little comfort when an aged hand landed on his hair, but not because his grandfather’s inability to protect him, but because of the images displayed before his very eyes.

Brightly colored superheroes were fighting a monster of Dantesque proportions, its muscled frame and glowing red eyes made Daniel want to hide inside his grandfather’s cloak, but at the same time froze him in position, unable to take his eyes away from the gruesome event.

“What is that, grandfather?” he asked, his fingers clenching.

“The one that once took your father away,” his grandfather replied, a deep frown marking his face. “And the one that can bring ruin to us with a simple thought.”

Daniel continued to stare as hero after hero fell prey to the monster’s enormous strength, and Daniel could see his Bruce Wayne’s dark form assisting a blue and red-clad form as he struggled to his feet. He could also see his father’s other children. Grayson dragging a redhead out of the way of harm, his arm hanging limply from his shoulder – dislocated, most likely – and Todd crawling on broken legs towards a cliff, eyes intent – and devoid of his customary helmet -.

Daniel’s eyes widened when he realized that, on top of the cliff was Damian, trying to hold his own against monstrous creatures with claws and fangs and that his fourth sibling, the one in red and black that his mother refused to talk about, was limping on a broken leg, leaping to assist him.

Daniel saw Damian’s eyes – his eyes, the exact replica of his self – widen when the teen pushed his original away from a spear, slashing his face in the process.

Grandfather’s  whole frame tensed when Damian was bathed in the red teen’s blood and the boy fell to the floor, twitching as he tried to stop the bleeding. He left his seat, clearly agitated, and started barking commands into one of his various microphones, growling that all members of the League had to move, had to assist The Detective at once.

Daniel felt true fright as he watched his grandfather lose his cool, as he saw how his eyes grew wide and frantic, his breathing raged and lips trembling.

His mother had arrived then to drag him away and sooth his fears, but the image had never left his head.

Miss Pru came to his room three days later and told him that everything was okay, that the planet had been saved by the man in red and blue and by his own father’s courageous efforts. She also told him that many members of the League as well as many super heroes had perished and that their efforts would always be remembered.

Daniel stared, then, in confusion, when her eyes grew dark and tears pooled in them.

“Someone you loved died?” he asked, feeling empathy when she nodded.

“It was someone you would have loved as well, little master,” she whispered, letting a single tear slide down her cheek. “Had you met him.”

The following year saw even more changes to the lives of Daniel’s family as his mother grew resentful and cold, glaring her spite at his grandfather at the same time the man grew silent and melancholic. As his grandfather’s hands would play with his long-ish – he was the one that insisted he kept it that way - hair whenever he saw him working on one of the many computer terminals and whispered that he could have been someone else’s son, should have the detective’s eyes as he shared his prodigious intelligence.

Daniel didn’t understand.

Miss Pru continued to bring him Damian’s things – most likely to distract him from the gloom that had become his household – and Daniel was instantly confused when he realized his original, his older brother, had his drawings from monsters and death to something completely different.

“Miss Pru?” he asked as she gave him some old sketchpads. “Is Damian a Catholic?”

Miss Pru had blinked, confusion clear on her face as he showed her page after page of his brother’s drawings, as the beheaded images turned to ones of rapture and beauty. As his assassins became saints with eyes closed, hands stretched and small smiles on their slender lips.

Blood dripping from their closed eyelids.

“That’s a Madonna, isn’t it?” he prompted, tilting his head.

Miss Pru’s face lost color as her fingers caressed the images, her teeth sinking onto her lower lip as she grew silent.

“It is a Madonna,” she said finally, wrapping her arms around him. “In a way.”

Daniel frowned.

“It’s not, then?” he asked, blinking.

She shook her head.

“Come with me, little master,” she whispered, her throat moving as she swallowed thickly. “Let me tell you the story of your brother’s weeping Madonna.”

He sat with her in a secluded patio and listened in awe as she shared with him the tale of the impossibly pure martyr, of the maker of the impossible.

The Weeping Madonna that had become Damian’s obsession.

The ultimate sacrificial lamb of the Wayne family.

Timothy Drake.

He listens as her voice breaks and her eyes lose themselves in the afternoon sky, as her lips curl into a smile and then into a purse of utter despair, as her hands gesticulate wildly and then drop onto her lap. He listens and falls in love with this prodigious man, this beautiful soul that is Timothy.

He smiles when Miss Pru tells him about their nights-in, the way his brother’s eyes would lit up every time they heard the tell-tale boom of something breaking the sound barrier near the east, the way he would stare at Owens or Miss Pru herself and then instantly grab a cup of juice, a can of soup, a stem of spinach, and shove them in their general direction, muttering about their health and blood-loss and what not.

The way he would always keep a tight monitoring schedule on each and every single member of his family and would sulk every time his siblings were sick and he was forbidden to approach them.

The way he was the one most likely to rule the world one day – or so Mr. Owens said – marching along with his army of smitten super teens behind him.

It would take him a while to realize Miss Pru had loved his brother in ways no league member should allow themselves to love and that it made her more beautiful in his eyes because of it.

His childish mind, however, did not add up to the source of her sadness until he heard the destruction along the corridors and the corpses falling before him as a shadow of death prowled the halls of their base.

As he found himself face to face with the one face he had been curious about his whole life.

Damian Wayne, age fifteen, had entered the headquarters of the League as an avenging angel, a dark creature of Daniel’s nightmares.

“Grandson,” Daniel’s grandfather had greeted, placing himself in front of Damian and protecting the child from his original’s eyes. “What brings you to my humble abode?”

“Move away, old man,” the teen replied, a snarl curling his lips, his eyes bloodshot and maddened like the monsters he used to draw as a child. “I will use the Lazarus and be on my way, or I will destroy everything you hold dear.”

“You have no place in my sanctuary,” Grandfather tried to reason, his hand tightening around the handle of his sword. “You renounced my name and have become an enemy to my blood.”

“You will not stop me, Ra’s Al Ghul,” the teen smirked, a deranged light filling his eyes as his hands cradled an ornate ivory box to his chest. “I know you will not.”

“What makes you think I would not…” Ra’s trailed, eyes landing on the box before his face lost all color. “No.”

“It is my right,” he hissed. “He is mine.”

“You stole him from your father’s house,” Ra’s whispered, shaking his head. “He will never forgive you such trespassing.”

“My father is a fool,” Damian hissed. “A fool that does not move to correct the wrongs committed against us.”

“I mean The Detective,” Ra’s corrected. “He will never forgive you if you do this.”

Understanding filled Damian’s eyes.

“He will,” he said with certainty. “He will understand, he loves me as much as I love him, he gave his life for mine. It is only fitting I return his life to him.”

Ra’s shook his head.

“You and I know his heart only beat for another,” he corrected.

“An error on his part easily corrected,” Damian snapped. “He sacrificed himself for me, not him. It is me who will own the beating of his heart. He will understand. He will forgive me, and we shall share our lives together.”

“I will not allow it,” Daniel’s grandfather said finally, drawing his sword even though his eyes remained on the ivory chest longingly. “For all the respect I hold for the Detective, I shall protect his wishes.”

Damian raised an eyebrow, eyes narrowing with insanity.

“I thought you would allow me free entrance once you understood my purpose, old man,” he said, gently resting his precious treasure chest against the floor and dragging his own sword from behind his back. “As I share your unfortunate blood, however, I believe it is time the League changes hands.”

Miss Pru had arrived then, just in time to drag Daniel away from the upcoming carnage. As Ra’s Al Ghul fell before his grandson, the Monster of his own making.

She held him against her chest as he listened to the sounds of his grandfather’s last breaths, the sound of his mother promising her loyalty to the new Demon’s Head and declaring her pride over her son – and it stung that his mother would love Damian more, but it made sense, in a way. She had carried Damian in her womb, she had loved Damian’s father with all her been, Daniel would never be like Damian in her eyes – and he hid his face against Miss Pru’s chest as, just a few hours later, the air rang with the despair-filled cries of one who had just returned from the land of the dead.

The agonizing cries of one who had been forced into life.

Daniel watched from his hiding place among the shadows as his grandfather was cremated and his ashes scattered to the ground, as the limp figure of Timothy Drake was laid to sleep on his grandfather’s bed, covered with the richest of silks and constantly fussed about and caressed by Damian, his unresponsive lips kissed and his hands worshiped like a saint’s, a god’s.

Most likely that is what Timothy was to Damian.

He watched as his original raved and destroyed everything around him when he realized that, while the Lazarus’s Pit was miraculous indeed, it could not restore what Apokolips had slain.

When he realized that his sleeping Madonna’s eye socket remained empty.

He watched as Timothy had deepened into the Lazarus’s over and over again, as his slender limbs flailed and his throat ran parched with his screams, as Damian cradled his body carefully and whispered his deranged love to him over and over again.

He watched from the shadows as Tim slept in the arms of his original.

He watched as Timothy finally opened his eyes, now a clear blue that might look greenish under a different light and watched as the teen grew frantic, smashing his fists against the mirror until they bleed, how he huddled himself in a corner of the room, new eyes staring at Damian in fright, how his hands seemed to want to claw at his own face.

“What have you done?” he whispered weakly, his whole frame trembling.

Damian knelt by his side, his hands gentle.

“What I had to do to get you back,” he replied, fingers caressing Timothy’s smooth shoulder, only to be slapped away by pale hands.

“Why?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “Why did you do this?”

“Because I love you,” Daniel’s original replied, his voice low. “Because I know you love me more than you could ever love him. You gave your life for  _me_  and I want you to remember that.”  

Timothy shook his head.

“Look around yourself, beloved,” Damian continued. “I created this new League, away from grandfather’s filth, away from Gotham and father’s legacy. It’s ours. A kingdom for you and I, a place for the two of us to rule. You are my beloved, you are my queen.”

“Damian.”

“Let me take care of you the way you deserve,” he said. “I will forever worship you as my god.”

“You are insane,” Timothy whispered back, tears sliding down his cheeks. “You…”

Damian shook his head.

“You will understand my love soon, beloved,” he sighed. “I will even allow you a few moments with him, to say goodbye.”

Daniel watched with wide eyes, feeling Miss Pru’s fingers tighten around his shoulders as the White Ghost brought forward a silver platter, carefully  handing it to the New Demon’s Head and bowing to him.

He watched as Tim’s new eyes grew wide.

“No,” he let the chocked sob escape his throat as he saw the shinning red metal being presented to Timothy.

“Say your goodbyes, beloved, and let us bury this dreadful past beyond us.”

“Ja… son…” whispered Timothy, wrapping his arms around the helmet, rocking back and forth.

He watched, unmoving, as explosion after explosion shook the ground. As Damian stood from his kneeling position to frown at the doorway.

“It seems Father has finally found us,” he said with distaste. “Call all members, we are stopping this childish feud once and for all.”

With a soft look and a kiss on Timothy’s trembling forehead, he left the room, promising his return.

Daniel turned to Miss Pru, his eyes asking the question his mouth could not articulate.

“Batman has come,” she nodded. “He has been looking for this base since The Demon’s Head disappeared with Tim’s corpse.”

Daniel felt his chest tighten in response, felt his eyes sting with tears as the ceiling started dropping on them.

He remembered his grandfather’s face as he caressed his hair and told him he should be the Detective’s child instead of his father’s, remembered Miss Pru’s stories and finally realized that the man they all meant, the one that should have always been there, was the same Damian could not let go of.

Damian’s Weeping Madonna.

With a surge of courage born of conflicting rage and courage, he left the shadows he had been living in for so long and wrapped his small arms around the shaking, rocking figure, eyes full of tears as he started to scream.

“BATMAN!” he cried with the urgency only children can convey. “WE’RE HERE! HE’S HERE! PLEASE!”

He held Timothy’s body as he cried his pain, as his eyes that shouldn’t have been his wept tears of a sorrow Daniel could not understand. He protected his body from all falling debris and the cold of night, from every prying eye as all League members rushed to stop the Batman from advancing into their lair.

“BATMAN!” he continued to call. “BATMAN!”

Because he knew it was their only chance, the only way he and Miss Pru and Tim would manage to survive this night.

When the man finally emerged from the shadows himself, all clad in black and sorrow, Daniel felt an instant connection to him. To the way he removed his cowl if only to reveal his heartbroken eyes.

“Tim,” he whispered, his voice breaking.

Daniel swallowed.

“Please, Batman,” he said, because he didn’t know if Father was appropriate. “Please save him. Please.”

Because if Miss Pru was to be believed – and she always was – Tim had once deposited his whole faith in this man, and so, Daniel would too.

“Bruce?” Tim whispered, eyes wide as he stared at his father. “Jason is…”

Batman took one long look at him, at his light blue eyes and shook his head.  

“Let’s go home, Tim,” he whispered, wrapping his arms around the trembling teen. “It’s okay.”

“No…” Tim whimpered, hiding his face in Bruce’s shoulder and clinging to the worn red metal piece. “It will never be okay again.”

Miss Pru instantly wrapped her arms around Daniel, holding him to her chest as she fearlessly approached Batman.

“Lead the way, it will be a few minutes until he realizes you are coming for Tim.”

Batman looked at her, eyes reflecting so much emotion, a conflict.

“He’s beyond your reach anymore,” she urged. “Please.”

He shook his head, his body sagging as he contemplated the hysterical Tim and the small Daniel.

He finally nodded.

“I will come back one day,” he swore, his fingers caressing Tim’s hair. “I will fix this.”

Their escape became a blur of gunshots, explosions, tears and sweat to Daniel, as his eyes remained fixed on Timothy’s hands, the color of his eyes, the tears that would never stop.

He just stood there when Grayson greeted him awkwardly and Mr. Pennyworth wrapped a soft woolen blanket around him and told him he looked like his father at his age. He didn’t care, really, for their hospitality, because he would never, could never, should never be a Wayne.

He didn’t want to.

He just spent his time tiptoeing around the manor, following Tim every night as he struggled to walk in weakened knees, crawling into a bed that wasn’t his own and breathing in the smell of smoke and leather, of gunpowder and ashes that made him cry until the sun rose in the horizon.

He stared as Mr. Pennyworth removed all items from hat he guessed was Damian’s room, as the years seemed to catch the old man every time his wrinkled fingers – wrinkled like grandfather’s but not as tanned, never as warm or as loving -  reached for the drawings of the saints weeping blood, the figurines of the catholic virgin dripping in red paint, the yellow cape that would never be worn again.

He watched as the Wayne family fell around him, just as he had watched the Al Ghul clan fall apart.

Until one day he watched Timothy’s pale hands reach for the cabinet Mr. Pennyworth usually dug into when Batman and Nightwing came home injured and remove bottle after bottle of pills, as Timothy took each and every capsule between his teeth and swallowed, counting each in a muted whisper and his lips then landed a soft kiss on the bent metal of the Red Hood.

He watched as the maker of the impossible sought to carve his own path towards Death’s embrace.

He watched and did nothing, even when Batman broke into the room, cried Timothy’s name and rushed him towards the Batcave, even when Grayson shook him demanding to know why he had not moved.

“Because he deserves this mercy,” he replied softly. “He deserves his happiness.”

His dark blue eyes followed the light on the sole gurney that shone over Tim’s pale form, the way Batman’s hand held his and tears ran down his face, the way Tim’s breathing was aided by machines.

“He will never be happy like this,” he finished, eyes calm.

He watched as Batman, Nightwing and Mr. Pennyworth, not understanding his plight, did all in their power to keep Timothy alive, and he felt Miss Pru’s hand land on his shoulder as she cried herself.

“They are selfish,” he whispered to her, frowning.

“In a way,” she agreed. “But at the same time they feel they can make it better, one way or another.”

Daniel nodded and watched, not moving a muscle, as Batman called it a scantily clad woman and begged to her on his knees to help them, to provide Tim with a different kind of relief. The one relief none of them could be able to give him now.

And watched as the woman whispered a soft incantation, her hand gently pressed against Tim’s forehead as she worked.

He watched Grayson as he cried and Batman as he whispered to Miss Pru.

Watched as she started letting her hair grow – turned out she had beautiful ginger hair, who would have thought – and her muscles grow soft in her arms.

Watched as Mr. Pennyworth prepared documents for her, for Daniel, a house, records of a life none of them had ever lived.

Watched as they all prepared for the pantomime that would be his life from then on.

Just as he watches now as he hold that pale – not so pale now, not anymore – hand in his own and smiles in awe as Tim’s eyes – Jason Todd’s eyes, really – glint in awe and he tells him the names of the athletes parading in front of them, victorious young men and women returning home.

“Who is that?” he asks, pointing to a blond man with a dazzling smile that waves at the crowd, a golden medal hanging from his neck.

Tim smiles.

“That’s Timothy King-Jones,” he replies. “Gold Medalist in archery.”

“Doesn’t look like all that much,” Daniel scowls, his hand tightening around Tim’s.

“From what I’ve read, it’s a family thing,” he explains, his eyes soft. “His mother was a gold medalist as well, as was his grandmother.”

“Still, lame,” he jokes. “I’m sure you could kick his ass if you wanted to.”

“Matt,” Tim scolds, his smile still in place.

“What?” he asks, feigning innocence.

“You shouldn’t be encouraging your brother to pick fights, Matt,” Miss Pru says gently, her red hair dancing in the wind.

“Sorry mom,” he mutters, eyeing the amusement that lit her blue eyes.

“Let’s go grab something to eat, my treat?” Tim offers, letting his hand rest on Daniel’s hair and ruffling it. Miss Pru frowns.

“You shouldn’t be spending all that money, Terry,” she says, making Tim laugh again.

“That’s okay, mom,” he replies, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “I got a job at Wayne Enterprises… in a way.”

“If you are sure…” she hesitates.

“I am,” he laughs, leading them both towards a quiet little diner that the family prefers.

From over Tim’s shoulder, Miss Pru shares an amused smile with Daniel as Tim continues to smile obliviously.

It is Daniel’s perfect revenge against his original, the perfect way to honor his grandfather.

He will protect Tim’s happiness, keep him alive and yet far from his grasp.

And as he unconsciously leans against his brother’s side, he lets his eyes stray toward the silent figure watching them from the shadows.

He nods at his father once and receives a small nod back.

They are not a family, Bruce Wayne will never be Daniel’s family.

Tim is.

And since he cannot be a Wayne or an Al Ghul, he will be content with being a McGinnis.

And the maker of miracles will live on.


	4. Matches Malone

“Where were you?” Matt asks, frowning, as Terry makes his way into the house, Ace nudging his nose under his fingers.

Terry sighs, forcing a careless smile on his face.

He is happy, in a way, to have Matt living with him, but the circumstances still have him reeling.

First, he moved into Wayne Manor on Mr. Drake’s request. The Old Man’s health hadn’t been so good the last few weeks and he wanted to make sure he was surrounded by family just in case.

Terry hadn’t minded, even Commissioner Gordon would stop by every week to make sure Bruce was okay.

But, then, his mother had left on a cruise with her new boyfriend, Mr. Owens - and he is happy for her, really, Mr. Owens looks like a great guy - which meant someone had to watch over Matt while she was away and his little brother was technically another clone of Bruce’s so, in Mr. Drake said so he was family.

Into the Manor he went.

Matt and Bruce got along greatly, though his little brother tended to avoid him and Mr. Drake most of the time, preferring to enjoy the gardens, the library, and, of course, Ace’s puppy-ish attentions.

He guesses life has settled pretty well around him.

“Terry?” Matt scowls, grabbing his hand and tugging.

“I’m sorry,” he says, letting his fingers card through Matt’s dark hair. “I was getting some leads for tonight.”

Matt’s scowl darkens.

“You should let me take the Robin suit and go patrol with you,” he argues, wrapping his small arms around Terry’s waist.

That’s another thing that has Terry still gapping.

Matt had found out about his ‘nightly activities’ two days after moving into the Manor, and while Terry thought he would be shocked, hurt by the lies or even disbelieving, Matt had simply frowned and declared he could be Terry’s Robin, help him and protect him from the bad guys.

Terry had being moved.

Bruce and Mr. Drake, on other hands, had being horrified. No Robin had soared the skies in almost thirty years and, by Bruce’s decree, none would do so again.

Terry had sighed, understanding, but Matt had become even more determined to care for _his_ brother, so he started sketching his suit, choosing his so-called ‘sidekick name’ and strong armed Mr. Drake into training him.

He still couldn.t believe how flexible and agile Mr. Drake was, despite his age, and how happy he looked whenever Matt demanded a training session, laughing as Bruce huffed in the background and corrected their posture.

Terry guesses it’s the closest he will ever come to family ever again.

And he must admit…

… he loves it.

“You would hurt Mr. Drake and Bruce if you did that, Matt,” he warns, shaking his head when Matt’s whole body relaxes against him.

“Is it a murder case?” he asks hesitantly, knowing full well the kind of messes Terry gets himself involved in most of the time.

“No, just a gang problem, the Hoods are moving and I’d rather be sure the gangs in Crime Alley are not up to something,” he explains, walking towards his room. “Wilkes usually keeps them all in line, but just in case…”

Matt nods, still sulking, his hold tightening around his brother’s waist.

Terry guesses he can cuddle his baby brother to submission until they fall asleep. It is, after all a small price to pay if it means keeping his little indiscression to himself, and yes, he knows Matt would keep his secrets it would be impossible for the boy to hide something from Bruce. So he says nothing.

Not of Hood’s leader’s decaying health and while Colin Wilkes has always been a friend of the Batman, the way the old man looks at him - as if he is a ghost, an unnatural apparition - has always been unnerving and makes him distrust him.

His second in command - and heir apparent - however, is a charming young man with piercing blue eyes that make something inside of Terry coil and curl warmly in ways he hasn’t felt since he broke things off with Dana.

Maybe even stronger than what he ever felt with Dana, he even has to admit to himself that he loved her for what she represented, as if a part of him equaled her to the things he always wanted - Dana is a great woman, can be a long mother, a tender wife. He can finally have a family if Dana is by his side - but it wasn’t fair for her. He wouldn’t be selfish, not to her.

And maybe that is the reason why Wilkes’ right hand man is igniting such passion within him, why one touch of his enormous hands seems to melt him, and his throaty voice sends shivers down his spine.

Carefully, he lays Matt in bed and sits by his side, back resting on the headboard and hands running through Matt’s back.

Tonight he has to meet Match and he finds his blood simmering inside his veins, anticipation pooling in the pit of his stomach. 

 

——

 

Sunny clears the glasses with his favorite dish rag, and unimpressed frown on his aged face when The Hood enters the bar.

Idly, he wonders how he came from being one of Mr. Cobblepot´s star barmen back at The Iceberg Lounge to serving common crooks a beer on his own, dingy little establishment after they spend the last hours of the night scheming their next hit.

He guesses he can´t complain, really. After Mr. Cobblepot´s tragic death at the hands of Black Mask and the Lounge´s subsequent selling, it had been a miracle Sunny had gotten enough to buy his bar, let alone keep it afloat through the weekly police raids and less than stellar clientele.

Still, sometimes, on slow nights like this one, he can’t help to stare at the piss-stained floors and long for the plus red carpeting and golden chandeliers that once tinkled over his head.

When he was young and handsome and full of potential.

He shakes his head, a tired hand smoothing his thick, white mustache.

Wilkes and his protégé walk straight to the bar wearing twin smiles of fond mischief on their faces - Sunny is not fooled, he served Wilkes his first legal drink and patted his back as the boy coughed pathetically afterwards - but he has a beer ready for them even before their asses hit his dirty stools. 

He is, after all, a professional.

Wilkes gives his a small, nervous smile while younger Hood ignores him in favor of watching the peeling wallpaper and yellowed plaster, which, really, is mighty ok with him anyways.

He doesn’t like Young Hood.

There is something in his fake smile and the insane glint on his dark blue eyes that makes him shiver.

It reminds him of the maniacal eyes of the original Red Hood as he cut Black Mask’s head off.

A bad idea.

He sighs.

"This place is perfect," Young Hood says suddenly, eyeing his beer with distaste. “He will feel more comfortable in a place like this."

The Red Hood sighs, shaking his head tiredly and patting the young man’s hand. It is the softest Sunny has seen Wilkes since the second Red Robin fell and, while a fucking tool, maybe the kid is good for him.

"I should tell you to stop this or you will get us all in trouble with the Bats," Red Hood says. “But I know nothing will make you change your mind."

Young Hood nods, eyes glinting with determination.

"You know I can’t," he replies, gently bumping his shoulder with the older man’s. 

All Hoods start drinking, arranging themselves over the bar and adjacent tables. Sunny eyes them warily, wondering what could they possibly be playing at - and whether it will wreck his business - when, as if by magic, all start drinking and chatting loudly, some staggering drunkenly to the bathroom while they laugh and he is about to asks Wilkes what the fuck and if there is going to be a fight or a murder he’s calling Comish Gordon herself.

But there is a teen entering the bar, eyes downcast, face partly hiding under his hoodie. He makes eye contact with no one and walks directly to the bar to sit with Young Hood, earning him an unimpressed eyebrow raise from Wilkes before the man is walking away.

"What can I get ya?" he asks the kid, doing his best to resist the temptation to card him - he is sure Young Hood would not appreciate the interruption, seeing as he is glaring at him.

The teen seems to hesitate for a second before a small smile curls his lips.

"A virgin Cuba Libre?" he says finally, elbows resting on the polished wood. 

Sunny raises an eyebrow.

"You don’t want a beer?" Young Hood asks, a shockingly genuine smile on his face. 

The young man laughs.

"I can’t drink on the job, my boss would have my ass!" he says, cheeks flushing with amusement. 

Young Hood nods absently, his hand resting on top of his friend’s soothingly. His face more alive than Sunny has ever seen it.

"We wouldn’t want that, of course," he says, laughter in his deep voice. “Two Virgin Cuba Libres, kind sir!"

With a well-practiced huff, Sunny almost slams two red cans in front of them, his face the perfect picture of non-amusement… and yet.

He thinks about it for a moment and god damnit, he was a professional once, the very best of his trade, so he can’t - doesn’t really try to - stop the impulse that makes him carefully place a slide of fresh lemon on the rim of each can and stab a cheerfully looking neon green paper umbrella through it. 

Young Hood scowls at him.

His younger companion beams in appreciation. 

Young Hood instantly relaxes.

Sunny pretends to continue cleaning his glasses while trying to come to terms with the sudden transformation. Somehow this kid has managed to turn Young Hood into a purring kitten solely focused on his happiness. 

Any other man or woman who dared to approach the Red Hood’s heir would receive a cold shoulder at best and a bullet to the head at worst. Young Hood is not to be messed with, and even his comrades steer clear of his tall frame and cold blue eyes.

And this kid…

Somehow, there is a softness to this skinny teenager with the blue/green eyes that makes him an attractive creature to the rotten souls of the underworld. He has seen the type already and he can see it now in the way Young Hood carefully angles his body on the stool so he is covering his companion’s smaller frame. How his enormous hands covered the kid’s tenderly and his thumb stroked the pale skin of his wrist.

He had seen the kind a long time ago, and he also knew how they ended.

Right there, that night, among the whispers of illegal shipments and rival gangs that have to be stopped - he’s an old man, but not  _that old, thank you very much - S_ unny sees the beginning of another icon, another little doll who has no idea he is threading into the passionate embrace of a merciless killer. He has no idea what would happen if he tries to leave the predator in front of him.

And… 

He shrugs.

And maybe it’s a little ironic that the one falling is Young Hood himself, considering the last icon to unleash a crazed monster gave Gotham the maddened legend that is the original Red Hood’s fall from grace. The way that, one day, every crook learnt how to vow under his wrath or be tortured to death, that some more sophisticated criminals like Nigma, Crane and Mr. Cobblepot himself earned his personal protection as long as they reported once a month and chatted with him about the past that wasn’t coming back.

Sunny still remembers Mr. Cobblepot’s grim face as he returned from such meetings and just sat by himself in one of the permanently reserved tables - which curiously no one sat in anymore - his aging face full of melancholy, his twisted hands idly doodling on the condensation of a glass of coke.

He frowns.

Wilkes’ eyes meet his own, the pain of heartbreak clear in his gaze.

Sunny turns back to the kids to find them locked in a passionate embrace. Young Hood’s lips are fastened over the kid’s neck, his teeth leaving a possessive mark on that snow white skin, Hood’s dark blue eyes flash as they meet Sunny’s over the kid’s shoulders and while the old man knows by now it’s not a drug deal he can’t help but shiver at the complete hatred and victory those eyes reflect.

‘You have no right to look at him’ those eyes seem to say. ‘He is mine.’

He looks away wisely, feeling sorry for the poor kid and his ridiculous petition for a…

A small moan leaves the kid’s lips.

“My boss will kill me if he sees this,” he whispers. “You wouldn’t like him when he’s angry.”

“He doesn’t scare me,” Young Hood whispers back, his tongue sneaking into the kid’s mouth.

Wilkes looks away as well, a sad twist on his wrinkling mouth.

Sunny feels sorry, he really does, but he is no one to tell him he shouldn’t be trying to replace his lost little Red Robin with another young man in his prime when he is getting older. It is obvious that’s what The Red Hood wants, and it is obvious Young Hood knows it.

But it’s also obvious the love the older man feels for his companion is not reciprocated.

Young Hood’s heart belongs to this kid who is too small, too slender, and too shy to come here and ask for more than a can of coke.

Sunny’s eyes widen.

Young Hood has pulled the kid’s hoodie off and has both hands caressing his dark hair while the kid’s head falls back, eyes closed.

It’s almost like staring at a blast from the past Sunny still longs for.

There, in his piss-stained, smoky and dark bar, he is staring at a figure he thought lost for years.

It’s the same kid that sat down with Mr. Cobblepot back at the Lounge, when he was young and out of college and just starting to work. The same kid that used to stare at him with a small smile and talk to him about literature and politics and make him feel valued and smart.

The same kid that Mr. Cobblepot mourned for years.

The same kid that always laughed that shy, sweet laugh of his and whispered he was too shy to order just a zetsy.

 _‘I don’t want the other patrons to notice I don’t drink,’_ he had said, ivory cheeks flushing a faint pink.

 _‘Order a Virgin Cuba Libre, then,’_ he had replied, all his charm and youth pouring out of him.  _‘It’s just coke.’_

The boy had smiled gratefully, gently playing with his paper umbrella before being whisked away by Mr. Cobblepot himself.

“That’s… impossible,” he whispers to himself, shaking his head and checking his glasses. He knows the kid is dead. Mr. Cobblepot himself spent a week in mourning after the kid’s death hit the news.

He sat down every month with a can of coke and memories of his ‘glorious time with that beautiful bird too bright to fly’ as he called him.

There is no way the same kid is sitting in front of him, being kissed out of his prodigious brain by the Young Hood himself.

There is simply no explanation.

Yet, there he is, panting, flushed, dressed in simple jeans and a red hoodie – oh, the irony – and sneakers while the other young man breathes into his shoulder, arms tightly wrapped around his waist.

“It’s so weird,” the kid whispers, a small smile on his face.

“What is?” Young Hood asks, eyes immediately alert, ready.

The kid looks away.

“We’ve been meeting for months now,” he begins. “And your boss hasn’t said a word to me, all our communications are between the two of us.”

Young Hood tilts his head, a frown marring his handsome face.

“Does it bother you?” he asks, a dangerous hiss threatening to spill from his throat.

The kid shakes his head.

“It’s just…” he hesitates. “I don’t even know your name. Calling you Hood is… odd.”

Young Hood’s smile is tender, full of love.

His nose nuzzles the kid’s ear.

“I don’t know yours,” he replies, blissful.

The kid looks away guiltily.

“I’m Alvin,” he says softly, so softly Sunny can barely heard him. “Alvin Draper.”

It seems to be an amusing name, because Young Hood is chuckling, his eyes full of fond endearment.

“No wonder you didn’t want to tell me your name, Alvin,” he says, a mocking smirk curling his full lips. “It’s a dork-ish name.”

“Hey!” the kid, Alvin protests.

Young Hood kisses him to shut him up, sighing in apparent pleasure when Alvin melts against him.

“I don’t use my name any longer,” he says finally, lips brushing against Alvin’s as he speaks. “But they used to call me Junior when I was a kid.”

The kid’s eyes fill with confusion.

“Junior?” he asks.

Something dark grows on Young Hood’s eyes.

“Yeah,” he says, his tongue caressing the kid’s lower lip. “Matches Malone Junior.”

Sunny watches Wilkes shake his head sadly, and somehow feels the air around them grow colder.

He shivers.


End file.
